[_Produces them from his waistcoat pocket._
_Mr. Pheasant_ (_the Magistrate_). Pardon me. I don't quite
understand. Were the gloves that you produce to be used at this
particular competition?
_Inspector Chizzlem_. No, your Worship. These are one ounce
gloves. The gloves with which these men were to fight are known as
"feather-weight" gloves.
_Mr. Pheasant_. Ah, I see. Feather-weight, not feather-bed, I presume.
(_Loud Laughter, in which both the accused joined._) Have you the
actual gloves with you?
_Mr. Titan Chapel_ (_from the Solicitor's table_). I have brought
them, Sir. Here--dear me, what can I have done with them? I thought
I had them somewhere about me. (_Pats his various pockets. A thought
strikes him. He pulls out his watch_.) Ah, of course, how foolish of
me! I generally carry them in my watch-case.
[_Opens watch, produces them, and hands them up to Magistrate_.
_Mr. Pheasant_. Dear me!--so these are gloves. I know I am
inexperienced in these matters, but they look to me rather like
elastic bands. (_Roars of laughter. Mr. PHEASANT tries them on._)
However, they teem to fit very nicely. Yes, who is the next witness?
_The Earl of Arriemore_ (_entering the witness-box_). I am, my noble
sportsman.
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